


Stolen Time

by GraceBe



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 09:52:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraceBe/pseuds/GraceBe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My first Downton Abbey AU, in which Elsie and Charles are... well, read and see for yourself...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The pact

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Downton Abbey or its characters andd I certainly won't earn any money with this scribbling. I think you should know that ;-)
> 
> Thanks to Gemenied, my beta and small genius :-)

**Stolen Time**

**1\. The pact**

**London, 1923**

He watched her intensely as she rolled up the silk stocking until it covered most of her leg, while a little part of the soft skin of her upper thigh remained uncovered. His fascination with this sensual sight of her was unmatched by anything he knew, even after all those years of knowing her. He would never tell her, but he suspected she only wore these delicate garments for him. She only used them, because she knew he desired her and she dressed right next to him ever so slowly, because she knew what it did to him when he could watch her.

He let his fingertips reach out and touched the luxurious material. She was too practical and unpretentious to buy them for her own pleasure. She rarely spent money for herself. She cared much more for others and their needs than for herself. The thought that she was only (hopefully only) doing this for him caused his throat to tighten and aroused him – again.

In all the years they had worked together, he had never dreamt of being close to her like this or even stealing a glance at her naked legs. And now she was not only closer to him than he had ever imagined, no, he had also seen, felt, tasted, loved much more of her than just her naked legs. Not even one hour ago, those beautiful legs had been wrapped around his hips where they had pushed and demanded from him to give her more, to give her something no other man ever could.

But their time was almost over.

The last few hours they had spent locked away in this small hotel room in the London. They did so only one night every year. It was always the last night, before the family left again for Downton. It had become a ritual, a painful, sensational tradition that should never have been initiated in the first place.

It was an unholy bond they had created over the years. A pact that would cost them everything once they had to face the One that had created them. But while he watched her so close next to him, one foot on the bed next to his thigh, one leg standing steadily on the ground, he couldn't care less about the 'after', about kingdom come, because every time he made love to her, he was close to heaven and bound to burn in the depth of hell at the same time. Thanks to her, he knew it all. Heat and cold, perdition and peace.

Unable to resist the temptation he wrapped his hand around her leg and moved closer. He felt how she tensed and held her breath, waited for him to proceed. He obliged, caressed her soft lower leg and moved up until his hand came to rest in the hollow of her knee.

She closed her eyes, as he placed kiss after kiss on the silky material of her stocking and kept caressing her with soft squeezes. His lips moved softly over her kneecap and then up over her thigh.

"Please...," she mumbled. "Don't."

He knew she had to go, knew he couldn't keep her around for much longer, but he wanted her to hate their parting as much as he did. He had always had the impression that she never took leaving him as hard as he did. She never seemed overly heartbroken or devastated to go back to her farm. He always suffered her loss, as if he would never be happy again. Maybe it was, because she was stronger, less romantic, and less lost in the dying world he still called his.

Whatever it was, he wanted her to feel more of what he felt.

"Didn't you get enough?" she asked, a little breathless as she tried to remove her leg, but with gentle pressure he kept her in place.

"No." He continued to kiss her leg. A part of him scolded himself for not being a gentleman, for taking what wasn't his. For being so weak. What they did was unworthy, rotten and beyond redemption. It gave them one night every year. And the one night that she spent in his bed meant almost another year of self-torture and the certainty that he would die a sinner.

The world, in which they lived, was simple and so was his faith. He sinned and he would pay for it.

If he had a choice, any choice to change it, he would do so. But there was no choice. He was stuck with the choice he had made and every time he returned to Downton, after the season was over, he asked himself, whether Downton and his life in service for the Granthams was worth it, and the answer was always the same.

As long as Elsie Burns returned to her home, Charles Carson would return to his. As long as this was their deal, their pact, everything they did in this room once a year, was what it was.

Stolen time.


	2. Allegation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Carson didn't know, if, faced with the same dilemma, he would have the strength to face his opponent. He probably wouldn't. He also didn't know, if he admired Burns for his bold move or not."

 

 

**Stolen Time**

 

2\. Allegation

 

  **Downton, 1920**

 

It was a long time after supper when Charles Carson watched Alfred, James and Ivy leaving his pantry. It had been a draining day and this rather one sided conversation marked the end of it. It was always the same old story. Two lads fought over one girl and in the end it always led to heartache for every party involved. Three was always a crowd.

 He rubbed his forehead, tired of the whole incident, though he doubted the affair was over and done after his latest dress down. The strange trio surely wasn't about to end their triangle just because he threatened them with serious repercussions. James was silly flirter, Alfred desperately in love and Ivy was too silly to know what was good for her. If he had only someone around who could help him handling this mess. But with Mrs Dougal as housekeeper, an efficient, but not very sympathetic woman in her forties, it was hard to keep the younger folks under control.

 

How he missed Mrs Hughes... Mrs Burns, he corrected himself. He missed her more than he could say. With her at his side life and work at Downton had been easier and more pleasant. Ever since she had left seven years ago to marry her former suitor, the farmer Joe Burns, he found himself less pleased with everything around him, including himself. He tried not to think too often of her and the times they had spent together, but recently he felt himself being reminded of her almost constantly.

 After her wedding they had started writing to each other at least once a month. Her life had certainly changed, but she still wanted to stay in touch with Downton and he liked having her as a regular correspondence partner. She may be gone for several years now, but through their letters it still felt as if a part of her was there with him. Even over all the miles they were apart she still offered him advice and friendship and that meant an awful lot to him.

 Her letters were like the blood that ran through his veins, they were crucial to his well being. So it didn't come as a surprise that the letter he had received today upset him more than he was able to phrase.

 It was the time of month when he usually awaited a letter from Mrs... Burns, but this time the letter he received wasn't sent by her. The envelope in the afternoon post had had a different sender, one he had never expected. It came from her husband Mr Joe Burns, the farmer with the tight suit and the red face. For a unbearable long moment, before he had torn the letter open, he had expected the worst. Had thought she might have fallen too ill to write or even worse....

But thank God none of this was the case. Mr Burns had written that he had to attend to some business in Ripon and requested a meeting with him during his stay. Carson wasn't sure what to make of it and he wasn't sure he wanted to know. He didn't know Joe Burns and he had no desire to change that. Back then he had been sure that Mrs Hughes knew what she was doing by marrying him. He had always trusted her judgement and it also hadn't been his right to question the man about his intentions, though the thought had occurred to him once or twice. In the end he had respected her decision and when she had left Downton it had taken him months, no years, to get used to her absence next to him at the table. Sometimes he still looked at the chair next to his and was surprised to see another woman sitting there.

 To his relief Elsie Burns hardly mentioned her husband in the letters she usually sent to him. Most of the time they just exchanged the odds and ends of their days. She wrote of the weather, about the cattle, and the neighbourhood, but almost never about her husband or her marriage. And Carson never asked about him. He didn't want to read about her being happy with Joe Burns. He was grateful that she seemed to be well off, healthy, and not unhappy. So, what did he need to know about Mr Burns himself and her life with him?

 But could he not go to meet the man? Carson doubted it. Strangely enough for someone having business to do in Ripon, Mr Burns would stay in Downton in the Grantham Arms for some days. Maybe it would be best to meet him there, before the man showed up on their doorstep at the Abbey and caused raised eyebrows or unwanted questions among the other staff.

 Carson eyed the letter again. The writing was short and to the point. It didn't leave him much choice, actually.

 So be it, he thought and sighed.

  

 

**Downton, 1913**

 

The kiss wasn't what it should have been. Whenever he had dreamt of kissing her, holding her, he had envisioned it to be tender and gentle. He had wanted to be gentle with her, patient, and loving. His goal had been to worship her, because it was what she deserved. It had been the hopeless romantic in him who had wanted this to be pure and sacred. But nothing they were doing right now was pure, sacred or even romantic. The kiss was raw and desperate. It caused his blood to boil in his veins and his body to react in ways he hadn't experienced in a long time.

Driven by desire he had pushed her against the cold wall in the downstairs hallway and his hands were groping her hips with single-minded intent. He pressed himself against her, trapping her. He was lost in her, in their kiss, was bewitched by the taste of her, and he couldn't imagine to stop.

 She returned his kisses with the same irrepressible fierceness. She duelled with his tongue, allowed him to touch her in a way no man ever had, but soon, before she lost all control, a small, guilty voice in her head started to scold her for her wanton behaviour. She was behaving like a whore.

 "Don't.... I've given him my word!" she mumbled and broke free. She was shaking heavily and her hand covered her mouth. Mortified about what she had just done, she turned her back on him and tried to regain control over her traitorous body and mind. Gods, how much she wanted him to continue, to lose control...

 "I'm sorry," he whispered and reached out to touch her arm, but she withdrew instantly, as if he could burn, mark her. Guilt stricken he looked down to his feet and tried to fix his tousled hair and his bathrobe. How could he? What was wrong with him? It was her last night in this house, before she left to marry another man and instead of wishing her well, he kissed her ravishingly and could only think about ripping her nightgown apart and taking her right there against the wall.

 "I do have to go," she said, her voice filled with shallow determination.

 "Of course, you must."

 "It wouldn't be fair to him... now that it's all settled."

 "I know."

 "Why didn't you tell me?" she asked, and sensed how tears were filling her eyes and her throat. "If I had known, I would never have agreed to marry him!"

 He was lost for an answer. He had no explanation. At least none that matched the seriousness of their situation. They were co workers, friends, and in houses like Downton butlers and housekeepers weren't allowed to be married or even to recognize each other as men and women. It was impossible for them to be together as he wanted them to be. And so he had never told her, he loved her. Just tonight, the night before she left, he had lost it, because he didn't want to lose her.

 But none of that mattered now, now it was just too late. The next day she would be gone.

 

 ~~~~~

 

**Downton, 1920**

 

One week after Burns' letter had reached him, Carson went into the village. It was a lovely spring afternoon and under different circumstances the butler would have been in a joyful mood. Yet, the prospect of meeting Mrs Hughes' husband... Mrs Burns' husband didn't please him. He had spent the last week trying to figure out what the man could want from him, but had come to the conclusion that the only way to find out the truth was facing the man. Did Mrs Burns know about her husband being in Downton? Carson couldn't quite picture it and that was the reason the whole thing smelled fishy to him. 

 He entered the pub in what had to be the first time in a decade and looked around. Dust was dancing in the rays of sunshine that fell through the colourful windows and it only took Carson a few seconds to find the man who had required his presence. At this time of day the pub was almost empty and there was just one man sitting alone next to one of the windows, a lonely, half empty beer in front of him. He wore a grey suit that perfectly matched the grey of his beard.

 He approached the man slowly and took off his bowler.

 “Mr Burns?” he asked, dignified.

 The man looked up to him. “That's me.” He rose and Carson noticed that he towered over the other man by at least several inches.

 “Please, sit down.” Burns pointed at the chair at the opposite side of the table and Carson hesitantly obeyed. He eyed the farmer suspiciously, while he waited for him to start.

 “Can I get you something?” Burns asked friendly. “A beer, perhaps?”

 “Thank you, no. I don't have much time,” Carson said, determined not to stay any minute longer than necessary. Aside from the fact that he wasn't keen to talk to Burns, he hated beer with a passion. It reminded of times he wished to forget. He watched Burns while he took a large sip of the golden liquid.

 “Elsie never told me, you were that tall,” Burns said after he had put down the glass. “Actually, she doesn't talk about you at all. The only reference to your existence are the letters she keeps hidden in the drawer next to our bed.”

 “What can I do for you, Mr Burns?” Carson asked, already not liking this man. The fellow had a way of staring at him that caused his blood to rebel. The eyes, though being friendly, seemed to examine him as if he were a rare species found in the jungle of Africa. He also looked rather ill. Everything about the man was grey. Not only the clothing and the colour of his hair. Even his skin was greyish, as if he were ill.

 “Not much, I guess,” Burns replied. “I just wanted to meet the man who writes to my wife so frequently.”

 “I wouldn't call our correspondence frequent,” Carson argued mildly.

 “There's no one else to whom she writes to that often.”

 Carson was now sure, it had been a phenomenal mistake to meet Mr Burns. He sensed what the man had in mind, had sensed it, but had denied it from the very beginning. The matter was nothing the butler wished to discuss in public – or anywhere else.

 “Mr Burns, is this leading somewhere? Because, if not, you'll have to excuse me.”

 “I know, you're busy. I've read so. But not so busy that you don't find the time to write to Elsie. I wonder why.”

 Carson raised his eyebrows. Did Mr Burns read his wife's letters? He tried to remember if he ever had written anything intimidating or improper, but, of course, he hadn't. The letters he wrote her were polite and respectful. There was nothing in there that could be read as anything else.

 “She shares a lot with you it seems,” Burns said and Carson started to realize that the beer in front of Burns wasn't the first one he had had this day. “You know a few weeks ago, Elsie's sister, Moira, wrote me a letter. Took her an awful lot to do it, because she adores Elsie, but she felt I needed to know what was going on and now I'm not sure I ever wanted to know too much about the woman I married.”

 Carson remained silent. He didn't blink, didn't move, while he had the feeling that he was about to experience the wrath of a very jealous husband.

 “She met you in London last year, didn't she?”

 “We ran into each other and had tea together,” Carson answered truthfully.

 “No,” Burns shook his head and corrected him. “She didn't just run into you. She knew you were in London. She knew how you used to spend your spare time there, because you wrote her about it. It was deliberate that she ran into you. She wanted to see you.”

 “That's ridiculous!” Carson said, but it was more a reflex than a certainty. “And I'm not willing to sit here any longer to listen to such allegations! You've married a highly respectable woman who happens to be a former co worker of mine and I won't allow you to badmouth her!”

 “I'm not badmouthing anyone,” Burns returned calmly. “But it's true. Elsie and her sister went to London last year, because she had some errands to do. Or at least that was what she claimed. And she's already told me she'd do so again this year. She takes her sister with her, hoping I won't ask questions and I won't, because my questioning her motives would damage our relationship and that's the last thing I want to happen.” Burns finished his beer and wiped his mouth. “I'm not saying she's not true to me. I know she wants to, but she sees something in you that I can't be for her. So here's my request. I take it you're a man of honour and so I hope you'll do me this one favour.” Burns made a pause, as he bluntly looked into Carson's face.

 “Go on then,” Carson said coldly.

 “Meet her in London this year, but tell her you don't want to see her again. I also want you to stop writing to her, even if she writes to you. Maybe she'll forget about you, once the contact breaks up.”

 “Mr Burns...,” Carson started, but Burns raised his hand. “I'm serious, Mr Carson. She's not the same since she met you last year. She's changed. Every time she gets a letter from you, she's absent-minded for days. It drives me crazy and it needs to stop, before I do something I'll regret. But as I see it, you're the only person who can end this insanity!”

 Carson leaned back in his chair and stared at the man in front of him. A man who loved his wife and who desperately tried to keep her. Carson didn't know, if, faced with the same dilemma, he would have the strength to face his opponent. He probably wouldn't. He also didn't know, if he admired Burns for his bold move or not.

 “What do you say?”

 “I take it, she doesn't know you're here?” Carson asked.

 “Of course not.”

 “So why do you ask me to meet her again?” Carson wanted to know. “Why don't you ask me to write her or simply not to show up at our meeting?”

 Burns took his time, before he answered. “Because it would hurt her too much.”

 With that Burns rose and left the pub, while Carson remained at the table, wondering whether if it had always been just a matter of time....

 

**~tbc~**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My eternal thanks go to Gemenied for being my beta! The lady rocks :-)


	3. Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Today, she knew it was the ultimate devotion that could only transpire between soul mates. Honest and deep love..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, we go again. Enjoy the new chapter and thanks again for your lovely response! You guys rock!Just as my beta Gemenied :-)

**Stolen Time**

3\. Confession

**Lythem St. Anne's, 1920**

Moira Scott couldn't face her little sister without feeling guilty as hell. Weeks ago, she had made a dreadful, irresponsible mistake that had been haunting her ever since. If only she had never written the stupid letter to Joe, her brother-in-law. What had she been thinking? How could she ever have believed that it would help to spill the beans..., well her sister's secret.

Moira knew it was time to confess. The burden lay too heavily on her conscious and she had to get it off her chest. She could barely sleep at night and during the day she couldn't think of anything else. She needed to confess, otherwise she she'd never be able to face her maker. She had invited her sister for a stay and hoped she could go through with her plan. Maybe she could lighten her soul and make it right. Not that it had ever been right between her and Elsie.

To her own shame Moira knew why she had written the letter in the first place. She couldn't deny it. The one and only reason for her behaviour was jealousy.

All her life Moira had watched her sister getting everything she wanted, while Moira had had to settle for the things that had been expected from her. Moira had married at a young age, because her father had wanted to see her well off as early as possible. So she had said her I do's to the son of a friend of her father's. Her husband, Gavin, had been one of the good guys. Not very good looking, not very witty, but a loving soul who had died before his time, leaving her and two young children behind. She had never felt anything but fondness for him and at times it hurt her to think about their short marriage.

The truth was her only, her real love had always been the man who loved her little sister.

From the moment Moira had laid her eyes on Joe Burns she had been lost. Joe, on the other hand, had never really looked at Moira, had never seen that she was the true beauty in the family, while Elsie was more the practical sibling.

Moira had met Joe a lifetime ago. Elsie had already started working at Downton and Moira had already been widowed. Elsie had introduced them when they paid her a visit for the weekend, because Elsie wanted her closest relative to meet the man who had shown a keen interest in her. Moira could only repress her feelings, which she seemed to have done well over the years. A few months later Elsie had turned him down, because she had liked her job in that big house, her career, more than the prospect of marriage and a family of her own. Joe had been heartbroken and Moira had felt for him, but back then she had been too much of a coward to let Joe know how she felt.

She had never understood Elsie's choice. Her sister's wish for independence and a loveless life had been beyond her imagination. How could she? Moira's world had always been small and she had never wished for it to be bigger. If she was honest, she knew she couldn't blame Elsie for anything, but deep down in her heart was a corner that furiously wished her sister had never been born. Who was Elsie anyway that she dared to reject what should have been Moira's?

But life was a funny business and one day Joe Burns had returned into her sister's life. Moira still remembered the pain when she received Elsie's letter, in which she had written about her sudden engagement to Joe. Wonderful Joe who had become a widower and had sought out Elsie to propose again. It had felt as if a knife had ripped her chest open. Elsie, Elsie, Elsie. To him it had always been Elsie.

But Moira had said nothing, had kept her tongue, had watched Joe and Elsie getting married. She had wished them well, had sat next to them for breakfast after their wedding night and had done her best to ignore the blissful contentment that radiated from their bodies. She had suffered and then last year out of nowhere, Moira had learnt something about her sister that she had never thought was possible.

Elsie, honest, upright, moral, decent Elsie, was in love with a man who wasn't her husband.

When she had accompanied her sister to London, she had noticed something was wrong with her. Elsie had unusually quiet and preoccupied. She had barely slept and on two afternoons she had even insisted on going out alone. Moira hadn't minded to have some time for herself and had run some errands. On their last day, Moira returned fairly late to the small hotel, in which she shared a room with Elsie. Outside the building she had noticed her sister and a man, she had never seen before, leaving a taxi. A man had gracefully taken her hand while Elsie had climbed out, and Moira had noticed instantly that something weird had been going on between them. Like a spell had been lying over them, something she couldn't name or describe. Today, she knew it was the ultimate devotion that could only transpire between soul mates. Honest and deep love, like the one Moira still felt for Joe.

For several minutes Elsie and the man had just been standing on the precinct without exchanging words. The man, a tall fellow in an elegant suit and bowler, had just been holding her hand that wore Joe's wedding band. The tension between them was almost visible, and when Elsie had finally pulled her hand away, Moira had noticed the man moving towards her, as if he was about to follow or to grab her. But in the end he had stayed behind and climbed back into the taxi. Elsie had remained outside, watching the taxi until it had been out of sight.

Maybe that had been the moment when Moira understood for the first time, that there was more to her sister than she had ever realized before.

After supper the sisters had put the kettle on to have some tea, before they retired for the night.

In the half dark of the kitchen Elsie watched her sister with growing curiosity. Moira had been acting weird all day. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but she saw that something was bothering her. Elsie had always found it difficult to talk to Moira about personal matters, because she was even more closed up than Elsie was. But tonight Elsie asked herself, whether she should take the risk and offer her sister a listening ear. Sisters owed that to each other, didn't they? But Elsie had no chance to ask, because it was Moira who started the overdue conversation.

"We need to talk, Elsie," Moira said seriously, while she poured the tea.

"My, my, that sounds mysterious," Elsie smiled flatly at her sister not sure now whether she wanted her sister to open up about her problem. It was just a hunch, a feeling that this wasn't a conversation she wanted to have. She saw it in Moira's posture; she was tense, avoided looking at her. Moira could have a doomed atmosphere radiating from her, as if she was carrying something dark deep within her that needed to break free, and tonight Elsie could literally feel the dark side of her sister.

Moira settled down on her chair and warmed her hands at the warm cup. Her eyes were fixed on the wooden table, when she finally started to talk, "I think, I have a confession to make and I want to tell you, before you leave again."

"What kind of confession?"

Moira took a deep breath and said, "I made a mistake, Els. A few weeks ago, after we decided to take another trip to London this year, I wrote a letter to Joe." Moira made a pause, obviously waiting for a reaction from her sister, but Elsie didn't understand.

"What letter? He never told me about a letter from you."

"That doesn't surprise me. Joe hates confrontations, doesn't he? He's a good fellow. I've told him about you and this man... the man you met in London."

Elsie got pale. "What man?"

"I've seen you with him. You were driving in a taxi and he dropped you off. He... he held your hand."

"And you wrote about that to Joe?" Elsie couldn't believe it. Her mouth opened and she thought about something to say that could match her confusion – and growing disgust.

She had never had any idea that Moira had seen her with Mr Carson. Moira had never mentioned it, had never asked for an explanation, which would have been the first thing to do before she drew any nasty conclusions or wrote about it in a letter to her husband. Elsie felt betrayed, given away, and exposed.

"He's an old friend, nothing more. You never told me! You never asked me! What were you thinking?"

There was rage building inside her. A cauldron that was bubbling with poison. Charles Carson was a part of Elsie's life that she didn't want to share with anyone. It was the one sacred piece that no one should touch or question and now it was soiled beyond imagination.

"I didn't have to ask you. I saw it, Elsie. He's not just a friend."

"How dare you?" Furiously, Elsie jumped up and for a moment her chair threatened to fall over, but she grabbed the rest with her hand and clung to it, her knuckles white.

"I thought he deserved to know that his wife is about to lose her way." There was a hint of stubbornness in Moira's voice. Elsie watched her sister with narrowed eyes while she tried to think of a suitable answer. Moira's assumption wasn't too far fetched, but she was wrong in one thing. Elsie wasn't going to lose her way. She wasn't going to be unfaithful, nor had she ever been. It was true that she had met Mr Carson, but why and how was her own personal business. Her motivation to seek Mr Carson out had gone far deeper than the wish to share her bed with him.

"I won't dignify your allegation with an answer. I'm going to bed," Elsie announced and fled the dark kitchen. She wouldn't sleep a wink this night, but everything was better than staying with her sister in the same room.

But at least she knew now, why she never had the wish to share her troubles, her worries with her sister. It seemed secrets weren't safe with Moira Scott.

**London, 1919**

Thank God for the accuracy with which Mr Carson described his daily routines, Elsie thought when she watched out for him. In his countless letters he had told her about how he used to spend his afternoons in Covent Garden and that was where she waited for him, close to the place where he used to have his afternoon tea. She knew he didn't like the city very much, but Grantham House he liked even less and so he tried his best to get away from it, as often as possible.

Charles Carson was only happy at Downton where everything followed a certain pattern. London was less predictable for him and she wondered how he would react when he saw her in a place where she didn't belong and where he didn't expect her.

Of course, she would try to make it look as if her presence was a coincidence. He wouldn't accept anything else. He was too honourable, too honest to meet a married woman without her husband being present, even if the occasion was as innocent as sharing a pot of tea.

But how could a deliberate meeting with a man she held so very dear be innocent? She was plotting to run into him, she was looking out for him like a hawk stalked his prey. No, this wasn't innocent, but it wasn't completely condemnable either. She just wanted to see him one last time. That was all. One last meeting with Mr Carson.

The day before, she had seen a doctor, because she had felt a lump in her right breast. She had a test and the doctor had told her, it could be cancer. And if it was cancer she had to face death, because there was no cure that could save her. For the first time in her life she was facing her own mortality and now she had just one wish: she wanted to spend a few hours with an old friend. A man who could have been so much more for her, if they had ever found the courage to explore their feelings.

She descried Mr Carson as he walked down the street straight to his favourite café. She couldn't hide her smile. He was so predictable, so steadfast. She loved the way he walked. He had a pride in him that many men lacked, even when he didn't wear his uniform.

She drew a deep breath and started moving. She bowed her head a bit, so that he wouldn't see her right away, yet so that she could still watch him. Her timing was perfect. He had just reached the front door of the café when she bumped into him. Her shoulder against his arm. He gasped, apologized instantly and grabbed her arm to steady her.

"I do apologize, Ma'am! I hope, you didn't hurt yourself!"

Then she looked up and smiled at him. The shock was written all over his face when he realized whom he had bumped into, but she swore there was a loving glitter in his eyes, once his brain had finished processing the information and had reached his heart. He even blushed, when he spoke, but he didn't release his grip on her.

"Mrs Hughes!"

"Mr Carson!"

**Lythem St. Anne's, 1920**

Elsie sat at her dressing table in the bedroom and combed her long, dark hair. Well, it wasn't that dark any more. Over the last couple of years the amount of grey strands had definitely increased, but she reckoned there was nothing to be done about getting old. One just had to accept it and live on.

It had been over a week since she had left Moira's house and she was still angry with her and the way Moira had violated her privacy. She had searched the house for Moira's letter to Joe, but she hadn't found it yet and a small, stupid part of her still wondered, if he had ever received the letter.

Joe hadn't said a word, hadn't questioned her nor treated her differently. If she was honest about it, she realized that he had been acting strangely, but she had good enough reason to blame herself for it.

Over the last months he had been smiling less, had demanded less, had become silent. She starred at the reflection of the bed behind her. A bed that had been only used to sleep in lately. After her visit with the doctor in London who had taken some fluid from the lump in her breast, Elsie had kept Joe at arms' length for as long as possible, because the scar the syringe had left would have led to questions she did not wish to answer. As a result, he had pulled away and on those rare occasions when they made love, it happened without the tenderness they had found for each other. She had made sure things would cool off between them. Even after she had gotten the result that she wasn't ill, she couldn't find a way to get back to normal. She had changed. Her death scare and her seeing Mr Carson had inevitably changed her.

But thanks to her sister she knew now her own behaviour wasn't the only reason for Joe's latest actions. Moira had told him about Elsie's meeting with Mr Carson in London. Gods, how ill he must think of her! How he must hurt!

There was no way, she could allow things to go on like this. She had convince him of her honesty, her faithfulness and there was just one way to do it. She had to return to being a wife, instead of being the housekeeper of his home.

The bedroom door opened and Joe came in. He avoided her sight and silently started to undress without a word. Elsie watched him, unsure how to bring up her decision about her trip to London. So she turned on her chair and watched him.

"Do you remember what I told you about Moira and I going to London?" she asked.

"Yes, sure."

"Well, I think I'll cancel it."

Joe who had just been putting down his suspenders, stopped irritated. "And why?"

"I've checked the storage cupboards and the closets today and I don't think there's anything we need. At least not something we wouldn't get anywhere around here."

Joe, visibly taken aback, sank onto the bed. "Are you sure there's nothing in London you need?"

She shrugged, hoping it looked light-hearted. "Nothing I can think of."

"You could go and... have some fun. Enjoy yourself with your sister." He continued to take off his socks.

"Moira told me last week and she didn't want to go either. So, it's settled and I'll stay here. It's too expensive anyway!"

"Are you sure?" he asked and stared down at the socks in his hands.

"Of course, I am," she answered. "Why wouldn't I?"

Elsie knew she was possibly pushing her luck, but she didn't believe there was any other way to resolve the tension that had built up between them over the last few months. If she wanted Joe to be happy again, she had to convince him that there was no other man.

"I know life around here, with me, can be rather dull. I know I haven't been very entertaining ever since Peter died."

Elsie shook her head, shocked about his confession. Joe's son Peter, by his first wife Ivy, had died during the war. He had never really gotten over the death of his only child and he still choked every time Peter's name was mentioned.

"Nonsense! What makes you think that?"

Elsie rose from the chair and closed the small distance between her dressing table and the bed. "I miss him, too, you know." She reached out to touch his hand. "Don't you ever believe anything else!"

He smiled gratefully at her. It was perhaps the first real smile from him in weeks.

"I'll try. I promise."

She bent forward and kissed him. They hadn't kissed in ages, at least not like this. Not with meaning and intent. He was hesitant, but the closer she moved against him, the more he returned her advances and himself lost within her.

Later, when he was sound asleep, Elsie's head lay on his chest. She was still awake, because every time she closed her eyes, her thoughts carried her back to Downton and to Mr Carson, to his baritone, his hands, and God forbid his kisses. She shouldn't feel like this, shouldn't waste a minute of her life on it, but she did. Often, especially, after she had lain with Joe, she remembered the night they had kissed in the hallway. She remembered and imagined how it could be to be with him again. How it would feel, if she hadn't pushed him away that night, if she had allowed him to make love to her.

And as always her heart was full of regret. Regret for the man next to her, because even if she never wronged him with her actions, she did so in her mind. Over and over again.

**~tbc~**


	4. Unfaithfulness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Seeing her one last time was worth feeling like vermin."

**Stolen Time**

**4\. Unfaithfulness**

 

**London, 1920, One week later**

It was shortly after six o'clock in the evening when Elsie left her hotel. She still couldn't believe she was there, in London. She still didn't know why, but Joe had insisted she went and since she was tired of inventing reasons for not going, she had taken the train to London. She had spent the whole day running errands she didn't really need, just to keep herself occupied, and now she was waiting for Mr Carson to pick her up for dinner. Since the family was going to be entertained in another house tonight, Carson had the evening off and she didn't have the strength to say no to his invitation.  
Her first response to the note he had left for at the hotel had been to ignore it. Just like a year earlier they had planned to have tea, no one had ever spoken of dinner, of spending an evening together. She had been so close to say no, but then she had realized she would probably never see him again. No matter how this day would end, it would be the last time she ever saw him face to face. She probably would never even receive a letter from him again, because after today that was how it had to be. Tonight was about saying goodbye once and for all.  
She looked down the street and when a taxi approached her, she mentally braced herself for the next few hours to come.

 

**~~~~~**

  
He was going to take out a married woman for dinner tonight. He did so, because he knew it was the last time he would ever be near her. One dinner and it was over. After tonight he would never again see the woman who had never been his.  
The taxi hadn't stopped yet and there was still time to tell the driver to go ahead, instead of picking her up. But, of course, he wouldn't do so. He would spend this evening with her, as planned.  
It was wrong, because his intentions weren't innocent and his thoughts about her less than decent, but he wouldn't cross the last line. He would think about it, but he wouldn't do it. He wasn't brave, he wasn't bold, but he would be a gentleman. He had made a promise to her husband and he intended to keep it.  
Charles Carson had never thought of calling himself a brave man. He believed himself to be an upright and honest man, but being that didn't necessarily involve being brave. In the morning he looked at his reflection in the mirror and hoped to see a good man who always tried to act responsibly. He had failed. He saw someone he could only condemn. Today was the day he forfeit his right to believe in himself.  
But she was worth it. Seeing her one last time was worth feeling like vermin. After tonight he would try to be a better man. In the future he would concentrate on things that should be important to a man of his position; his work and Downton. Downton was his life and he would focus on it and its inhabitants. He would do so until he died. Once he was gone, he wanted to be remembered as a man of dignity and honour.

  
~~~~~~

**Lythem St. Anne's**

Joe Burns was alone in the house and his only companion for the long night to come was a full bottle of whiskey. It was the vile stuff, the one that could make a man forget or, if he was beyond that, at least make him fall asleep. He sat in the kitchen with just one small lamp that flickered and produced haunting shadows against the walls that surrounded him.  
He had sent his wife to London, fully knowing she would meet another man there. If he was lucky, she would be back. If not... it had probably been the right decision to tell her to go. Everything he knew about Charles Carson he knew from the letters he had written to Elsie. When he had finally met the butler in person, Carson had hardly shown his true colours. The man wore a mask, one that only seemed to slip when he wrote to Elsie. Joe knew that, because he had read each and every letter of the neatly tied up package.  
He had felt awful about pawing through Elsie's things, but once the torch had been lit, there was no way he could keep the flame small. It had become an obsession. He was shamed by the memory of opening her drawer to get them, but he couldn't help himself. The idea that Elsie was in love with someone else had been too overwhelming to bear. But once he had read the letters, he had felt even more ashamed. There was nothing incriminating about the letters, nothing improper. Yet the obvious fondness between them revealing itself between the lines was not easy to handle. He didn't want to think of her life at Downton Abbey as a rich one, with friends and other men who had possibly courted her. She barely talked about her life at Downton, but he had always assumed it was because she was someone who always lived in the present and not in the past.  
But what if the reason for her not looking back was something that she didn't want to share?  
Joe believed in trust and he had always believed in Elsie. Until Moira's letter arrived he had never not trusted her. In his heart he didn't believe she could ever be unfaithful or lie to anyone. She would never betray him, but what if deep down inside she wanted this fellow? What if she desired him? What if her feelings for him were beyond her control?  
Just as he wanted to pour himself his first glass someone knocked at the door. Irritated, he rose and was astonished to realize who stood in front of him.  
“Moira!” he said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”  
“I thought you could need a friend,” she said. “May I come in?”  
“Why not?” he asked and stepped back to let her in. Maybe he needed someone who could help him to beat the loneliness that had occupied the house ever since Elsie had left for London.

**London, the same evening**

  
After they had left the restaurant, Carson offered Elsie his arm.  
“You still haven't answered my question,” Carson reminded Elsie, as they melded into the crowd. It was a mild evening, the first truly warm this year and the street was full of people who wanted to enjoy it.  
“I don't know what you mean, Mr Carson,” she answered, perfectly knowing what he was hinting at.  
“Oh, I think you know what I mean, Mrs Burns.”  
She stopped and smiled. “Strange. When we met last year, you couldn't get my name straight. You still called me, Mrs Hughes. And this time... you didn't slip. Not just once.”  
“Well, I had one year to practise, didn't I?... So, will you tell me, if I was right before when I asked you, if it was true that it was no coincidence that we met last year?”  
She sighed and tightened her grip around his arm. She gently pulled him with her. As long as they kept walking, she didn't have to face him. “It was no accident.” Now it was out. Her stomach twisted back and forth, but the truth was out now.  
“I see.”  
“I had my reasons, Mr Carson.”  
“And you don't think I have the right to know them?”  
He didn't sound angry, not even in the slightest, but there was a hint of sadness in his voice and it was this little hint she couldn't bear. He was asking for her trust and what did it hurt to tell him now? Even though she never told her own husband?  
To her own surprise her decision was quickly made.  
“I admit, it was no accident, but I didn't really plan it either. Last year I had to see a doctor and he had to run some tests. I didn't know what lay ahead and so I thought, it would be nice to spend some time with an old friend.”  
He stopped dead and turned to her, his face suddenly pale. “What kind of tests?”  
She shrugged, “Never mind. They turned out negative. I'm fine.”  
The news didn't seem to reassure him. On the contrary. He took hold of her arm and his fingers squeezed her lower arm. “Are you sure you're all right?”  
Her heartbeat joyfully quickened, when she realized how much he cared. “I am quite sure. It was nothing.”  
“Did you ever tell that to Mr Burns?”  
Her smile faded and she shook her head, “No. He lost his only son in the war. I couldn't bother him about something I wasn't even sure about. And I didn't want to bother you either.”  
Carson sighed. “You should tell him, Mrs Burns. He needs to know.”  
She couldn't agree. “No. As I said there's no reason to bother him....”  
Carson raised his hand, “I don't think you understand. He must know the truth. You see, he wrote me some time ago, asking for a meeting....”

**~~~~~**

The moment when he had to bid her goodbye was the moment when he realized it wasn't so easy to keep his promise. He hated himself for it, but a part of him, a very big and very persisting part of him, just wanted to pull her against him and follow her into her room to do everything only a husband was entitled to. The other part of him was fortunately strong enough to resist. He even resisted the temptation to kiss her hand. He just held it and felt the wedding band that separated her from him.  
He had told her about Mr Burns visit to Downton and his request. He had held nothing back, hadn't left anything out.  
But what did it matter anyway? This was the last time they were together. In a few moments she would vanish inside the hotel and then he would never see her again. She would return to her husband, the man she loved, as she had told him.  
The less she felt for Carson the better. It meant at least one of them was suffering less than the other.

  
**~~~~~**

**Lythem St. Anne's, the next morning**

Joe woke up with a head as heavy as if it was cast with metal. The blood pounded in his veins and he felt sick. He didn't dare to open his eyes, but he could say the sun had already started to rise. A warm day lay ahead. A day full of headache, work, and the question, whether his wife would return to him. He groaned and stretched his arm, fully knowing he would only find an empty pillow.  
Only the pillow wasn't empty. He wasn't alone. Someone lay next to him and had just started to complain softly about the harsh awakening.  
He jerked up and his stomach started to revolt. Confused, he looked next to him, hoping to find Elsie, hoping he had just dreamt. But it wasn't Elsie who lay next to him. Another woman with dark hair was occupying the place next to him. She turned on her back and smiled brightly when she realized he was awake.  
“Good morning,” Moira said.  
“What are you doing here?” he asked, fighting the wish to throw up at once. He was naked and Moira didn't look, as if she was wearing much either underneath the blanket. Her smile faded when she understood that he apparently didn't remember much of the night before.  
“You asked me to stay,” she answered flatly. “We had something to drink and you asked me to stay.”

  
**~~~~~**

  
Elsie had taken the first train in the morning to get home, after she had spent a rather sleepless night. It meant she was earlier home as originally planned, but perhaps Joe would be pleased to have her back earlier. After everything Mr Carson had told her about his conversation with Joe, she was sure that it was best to be home as early as possible. After all it was time to get their life back together.  
Her agreement with Mr Carson was clear and straight to the point. There would be no letters any more. No meetings. No nothing. A clean cut. No hard feelings. But it was hard. So very hard and she prayed she would learn again to live a life with all the odds and ends that demanded the attention of a farmer's wife. A daily routine was always helpful to keep the mind from wandering.  
Because of her early arrival there was no farm hand to pick her up and so she took the bus to get home. It was a war sunny day and Elsie was pleased when she reached the farm, her small, fairly light suitcase in her hand.  
She greeted the various farmhands that were busy in the yard as she passed them and entered the house through the back door that led into the kitchen. At least she was early enough to prepare lunch without haste. Every time she was away, she left one of her girls who helped out in charge, but the meals often ended with a lot of displeased stomachs.  
“Hello! Joe, are you here?” She got rid of her suitcase and her scarf while she looked for him.  
“Joe!”  
The house seemed deserted, but she had a feeling that he was around and so she kept on looking. When she reached the small room that he used as study, she noticed with slight irritation that the room was locked. The door was hardly ever closed, not to mention locked. She knocked softly.  
“Joe? It's me, Elsie. I'm back.”  
To her surprise she heard someone moving inside. Seat bases scratched over the floor and then she heard steps. Joe opened the door, but he didn't look well. Not well at all.  
“My... what happened to you?” she asked, when she saw his pale complexion and the red-rimmed eyes. He looked as if he had been crying. She gently cupped his face in her hands, but he withdrew.  
“No...,” he mumbled as if her touch somehow burnt him.  
“Joe, what is it?” she asked worried, as she followed him inside. “Are you sure you're all right?”  
“You're early,” he uttered breathlessly.  
“I took the first train,” she answered while her eyes scanned the room. She sensed something wasn't as it should be. Then she saw the bottle of whiskey on his desk. It was open, not empty, yet a respectable amount of the liquid was missing. That wasn't exactly the welcome she had hoped for.  
“Have you been drinking?” she asked and this time she didn't sound worried. She became a bit impatient. She didn't like it when he drank too much. He always got pensive, even depressive when he had too much to drink.  
“A bit, but I didn't drink alone.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“Your sister was here last night.”  
Elsie crooked an eyebrow. The mere mention of Moira was still enough to set up her anger. “Was she?”  
“Yes,” Joe answered with a cough. “I don't know why, but she was here.” He sank in his chair. “Els, we need to talk.”  
On that one she could only agree, but preferably when he was sober. “Yes, I guess we have to talk, but later. After you had some coffee and something decent to eat.” She turned on her heels, but he held her back.  
“No, the coffee can wait. Let's talk now. Something happened while you were away.”

**~tbc~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always I'd like to thank Gemenied, my loyal and brilliant beta :-)


	5. Intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She was all he needed. She was his destiny. With her at his side, or inside of her, he could welcome death as a friend one day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we continue... some questions will be answered with this chapter... some won't. Again thank you for all the support and the feedback. You guys are fabulous! I also have to thank my beta Gemenied who never gets tired editing my endless sentences! :-)

**Stolen Time**

5\. Intentions

**London, 1921**

Her intentions had been obvious to him from the moment he had laid eyes on her. Actually, he had known them before he had met her in Covent Garden that evening, even though the letter she had written to him beforehand hadn't implied anything of that sort.

Yet, it was that sort of thing that was happening between them. That sort that always led to ruin and shame and was as inevitable as dusk was at the end of the day.

Every time they had reached an understanding, seemed to have found a way to deal or to stop dealing with each other, their lives changed. It was, as if fate or destiny or some other invisible, almighty force didn't want to allow them to part.

Or maybe it was them. The two of them who just couldn't let go. Maybe it was a tragedy of their own device. No matter what happened, there was always an option for them to stay away from each other. But they grasped at every straw, clung to it and in the end the straw happened to be a razor blade, causing them to shed blood.

Being with each other was the life they bled. Their decision, their pact, their deal with God and the payment would be made in blood. In fact, he was already paying. He was tasting his own blood, because in a fit of passion she had bit his lower lip.  
The pain was sweet and caused him to groan, but they had to keep it as soundless as possible. Sometimes not only the walls had ears. And if someone ever learnt about them, their fragile little world would shatter into pieces.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, after she had licked a small drop of blood from his lip.

"Don't. Don't ever be sorry," he returned, thrusting a little harder, which she welcomed it with another deep kiss. It was a kiss that sucked the air out of his lungs and made his whole world spin. She was all he needed. She was his destiny. With her at his side, or inside of her, he could welcome death as a friend one day.

**~~~**

**Lythem St. Anne's, 1920**

Elsie Burns was fighting with her laundry. She was outside, trying to hang up the bed linens for drying, but the stubborn fabric just wouldn't obey her. No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn't throw the linens over the washing line. Maybe because her arms were already aching from the last endless days she had worked herself half to death, because she couldn't risk doing nothing. Doing nothing meant thinking. Thinking meant facing facts. And facing facts meant she couldn't pretend nothing had happened.  
She sighed, when she caught the large cloth for the last time, before she put it back into the basket. It was mild spring day, the perfect weather to dry the laundry, but she would have to ask one of the girls to help her.  
Since she had returned from London, she had spent her time cleaning the whole house and washing everything she could get into her fingers. She was scrubbing and wiping every inch, hoping she could erase everything her sister had touched, sat on, drank from, slept in. It was a rather pathetic, pointless attempt to get rid of Moira, but for the time being, it was the only defence she had.  
Joe was awfully quiet these days. He hardly spoke and looked even less at her. He had fallen into a trance. In the morning he went out to do his work and in the evening he returned to the house. He slept on the uncomfortable couch in the small sitting room, even though Elsie had told him not to.  
So far Moira hadn't shown up and Elsie hoped she would never dare to do so again. Moira and she had never been particularly close, but the rift that had opened between them the night Moira had told Elsie about the letter she had written to Joe, had reached a size that no bridge could link again.  
She had the horrible suspicion that everything, from Moira's letter to Joe to her visit at the farm during Elsie's absence, had been planned. Joe had told her, that after having two glasses of whiskey Moira had confessed her love for him and he, being weak and feeling lonely and such nonsense, had given in when she kissed him. She had always known Joe was a sensitive soul, a dreamer, but she had never seen him as weak. It made her so angry to realize that he had fallen for her own sister, while Elsie had fought tooth and nail not to give in for her feelings for Mr Carson. She had fought it and won her battle – so far. Why couldn't Joe win his? Was it too much asked for him to fight temptation?  
Perhaps it was, because Moira had manipulated him for weeks. She had been the one to nurture his doubts about Elsie's faithfulness in the first place and then, when he was lonely and drunk, she had boosted his ego with her confession of love.  
But where did she want all this to lead? Had she really hoped, Elsie would leave Joe? Or did Moira hope Joe would kick his wife to the curb to start a new life with her?  
None of this made much sense, no matter how often Elsie thought about it or how often she changed the perspective. Moira and her lost cause had destroyed everything and now the pieces lay scattered all around them.  
Elsie drew a deep breath and picked up the heavy basket. She turned to go back to the house, but stopped dead when she realized she wasn't alone. Moira stood there, clutching her handbag in her shaking hands in front of her stomach.  
“Hello Elsie,” she said in a voice she audibly couldn't control.  
“What do you want?” Elsie asked and passed her.  
“I want to talk,” Moira answered and followed Elsie through the yard.  
“And what exactly do you want to talk about? About the secret letters you have written to my husband or about the fact that you shamelessly abused my absence to seduce him... if you want to call what you did seduction!”  
“Just listen to me, sis!”  
They had reached the house and Elsie used her foot to push her back door open. “Don't call me sis, Moira. Sisters don't do the things you did.”  
Elsie put the basked on the kitchen table and turned to Moira. “There's nothing the two of us have to talk about.”  
“I didn't want it to happen – well, not like this,” Moira admitted and bowed her head, partly in shame, partly because she needed to hide her defiance.  
Elsie looked at her sister. She understood the meaning of the phrasing. Moira wasn't sorry for her night with Joe. She was just sorry for the circumstances. That was hard to swallow, but it made her decision all the way easier.  
“Just leave my house,” Elsie said. “Leave and don't come back.”

**~~~~~**

 

Two weeks later Joe suffered a stroke. It happened at night and when she woke up shortly after dawn she found him unconscious at the bottom of the staircase, and before the day was over he was dead. Four days later he was buried and another week later, Elsie stood at his grave, asking herself what had actually happened.  
Within the turn of a few weeks her whole life had been turned upside down and for the first time in her life she felt really lost. It was beyond her comprehension that she had lost her husband. Dear, loving Joe was gone, and he had died before they could settle their differences. He had died without knowing that she would have forgiven him eventually. That was the part of their tragedy that hurt her the most. She would have forgiven him and he would never know, because she never told him. She had let him suffer, even though she had sinned with her thoughts as he had sinned with his actions.  
It was a rainy day and Elsie stood at her husband's grave. The raindrops kept falling on her and wetted the flowers she had brought. She noticed another fresh bouquet that had been added and suspected it came from her sister. The pain about Moira's betrayal had been replaced by the sadness over Joe's death, but Elsie had decided that her relationship with Moira was over. She hadn't seen her younger sister since the funeral and she had no intention to do so in the future.  
Not that she had any plans for the future. The farm was hers now. It fed her, it secured her, but she wasn't sure she wanted to run it without Joe. But somehow she felt that she owed him to keep it.  
They had never really talked about what would happen in case one of them died. How foolish, but to Joe talking about death had been like inviting the grim reaper to one's own doorstep.  
But death didn't wait for invitations from the living. It arrived in its own time and left the bereaved back. Uncertain and unknowing.

**~~~~~**

**London, Summer 1921**

Carson reread the letter he had just written for the tenth time and signed it with a heavy sigh. He would post it at the station before they all left for Downton. The season was coming to an end and soon life would go back to normal. At least for most of them. But for him everything was changing.  
He didn't have the nerve to ask her to marry him last night and he knew she didn't expect him to. Her husband hadn't even been dead for a year, so there was no way they could marry right away. Yet he had written her a letter, in which he promised her marriage and a good peaceful life. He would retire, live in a cottage surrounded by roses and marry her. That was his plan.  
Her answer that reached him about one week later at Downton broke his heart.

**~~~~~**

**London, 1922**

"So this is what you want us to be?" Carson asked while he watched Elsie as she fixed her hair.

She was standing in front of the small mirror and pinned up her curls, one by one. He was already fully clothed again, ready to flee the small, filthy hotel room. This discussion would end as it always ended. With refusal, devastation, and the certainty that nothing about their agreement would change.

One year ago, after their first night here in London, he had written her a letter, asking, begging her to marry him, to make it right, and she had refused him. Her phrasing had been kind, but unmistakably straight. They lived different lives and she didn't think either of them was willing to give it up. Instead they did this on a regular basis. They met for dinner and after that they made love between thin, filthy sheets. He hated it. And depended on it like the day depended on the night to prove its existence.

One night once a year.

Stolen time.

That was what they were.

"It is what we are," Elsie answered calmly. She concentrated on getting ready and avoided his questioning eyes in the mirror.

"We can be more!" he insisted.

"I can't sell the farm," she explained, as if she was talking to an impatient child. "I couldn't do that to Joe."

She always said that, when the subject came up. Despite late Joe Burns' cheating, she didn't let go of his former possessions. It hurt Carson that she didn't even contemplate to come back to Downton to live there with him. His Lordship had promised Carson a cottage on the estate years ago. Once he retired the butler could lead a decent, fulfilled life in one of those cosy little houses surrounded by flowers. Picturing her at his side as his wife just completed the image and yet he realized again that this was never going to happen. And all because she felt too obligated to her dead husband.

In moments like this Carson felt used instead of loved. Was he really just second best to Joe Burns? On a moral level he certainly was. He was just her lover, not her husband. He had no legal claim on her. But wasn't their emotional bond something that counted? Why couldn't she leave the farm behind and be with him? If she loved him, as she claimed, why couldn't she just be with him? To him it was simple and not as complicated as she said it was.

"Would you leave Downton?" she asked, interrupting his morbid thoughts.

"What do you mean?"

"Would you leave Downton for good?"

"To do what?"

"To live with me... on the farm." The shock caused his throat to tighten. Did she really just ask him to live in another man's home? The place where she had lived and had shared her bed with him?

He was aghast and didn't know what and how to answer.

"You see," she said, as she turned to face him. "You won't live in another man's house, but you expect me to go back to Downton, a place that belongs to you like a wife belongs to her husband."

"I don't quite follow you," he answered huskily. He didn't follow her. How could he? Her words made no sense. Not to someone like him who wanted to part the world in black and white, right and wrong.

"Downton's always been your first choice," she explained. "It's your wife and I'm just your mistress. I'm the whore that waits for you once a year and allows you to return to where you belong."

He had flinched when the word 'whore' left her lips. "I wish you wouldn't phrase it like that," he whispered.

Elsie gave him sad smile, "And I wish you had just denied it."

**~~~~tbc~~~~**


	6. Arrivals

Chapter 6

Arrivals 

 

Downton, Autumn 1923

Carson dreamt about Elsie Burns every night. It was like a curse. He could fall asleep and then without a warning, in the middle of some nonsense dream about polished silver or dirty gloves, she appeared and she wouldn't leave before he opened his eyes. He dreamt of milky thighs only covered by silk stockings and sometimes he even felt her touching him. He shouldn't be so affected by these dreams, but the truth was that he never really got accustomed to her presence on his mind. Every night was as painful as the one before and he didn't see an end to it.  
Every morning he opened his eyes, realizing she had only been a part of his dream, while he had to live his life at Downton without her.  
Of course, there was a way to change things, but he had never truly believed in change. Change had never been kind to him. Every time he had changed he had also lost something.   
He had changed after Alice Neal, a woman he had truly loved, left him. Back then he had returned to Downton to start over as a footman. And then he had to change when he had started his sinful relationship with Elsie Burns. He had changed his virtues, his moral compass, because she wouldn't marry him and he wasn't strong enough to stay away from her.  
Every time he changed, he lost control. It felt as if he was falling and while he fell he was afraid to hit the ground. Only that the falling never stopped and he still anticipated the moment when he would finally smash into pieces.  
Change wasn't what made his life easier as the poets used to say these days. Change was what destroyed the things he held dear in life.  
If he decided to change again, it meant he had to leave Downton. Not just the Abbey, but also the village, even Yorkshire, because she wanted him to live in her late husband's place. He would have to leave his home, and everything he knew and valued, to live in another man's house, to sleep in another man's bed, something that felt as if he would spit on this man's grave.  
It would never happen.  
Maybe that was how it was supposed to be. Maybe she had refused him for years, because she knew they weren't meant to be a married couple. They had been acting against God's laws for years now and in his mind there had to be an end to it rather sooner than later.

~~~~~~

 

The day Polly Davies entered Carson's life was a random Tuesday. It was Anna Bates who introduced them, because Mrs Davies happened to be her aunt, her mother's only sister, to be precise. After the death of her husband Polly needed a change and she also needed a job. So it came to pass that Mrs Dougal, the housekeeper who had succeeded Mrs Hughes many years ago, had left Downton. Mrs Davies had a lot of experience, because she and her late husband had owned a small Bed & Breakfast and Lady Grantham was simply delighted to hire someone who was related to Anna Bates who had a formidable reputation among the staff and the family. So Carson had once again to get used to another colleague who he would always compare to the woman he loved.

To his own amazement he got quickly used to Mrs Davies who resembled her niece not only in her outer appearance, but also in character. She was clever, practical and strict if needed, yet kind when the circumstances demanded it. She was good for Downton and she was good for the staff.

He also had to admit that she was quite good looking, even attractive and he enjoyed her company. She wasn't Elsie Hughes... Burns, but finally after many years he had found someone with whom he could enjoy a cup of tea in the evening and a good talk when the day finally came to an end. 

~~~~~~~

 

Lythem St. Anne's, January 1924

The silence of the falling snow was the only thing that made the winter bearable for Elsie. Only the time of winter contained a silence that every other season lacked. Despite the cold and the darkness there was a peaceful atmosphere about winter, which she had learnt to appreciate.   
The first few months without Joe had been horrible. She had felt lonely without having him around and since her relationship with her sister had come to an end, there had been no one to turn to. Charles Carson was too far away and his letters, as beautiful as they used to be, couldn't warm her at night and never made up for the lack of life in the empty farm house once the day was over.  
And now it was winter and winters at the farm could be a lonely affair. This winter was even lonelier, because she hadn't received a letter from Mr Carson in weeks. His last letter had arrived shortly after New Year. He had written about the servants' ball and the arrival of a new baby for Anna and her husband John Bates. After that one, he had stopped writing and didn't answer the letters she wrote to him. At first she had been frantic with fear, because it wasn't like him not to write back. But then she told herself the obvious had happened. Yet, she had written to Anna Bates and had re-established a penpalship between them. Elsie had foreseen the result, but at least she knew Mr Carson was fine – or at least not ill.  
Indeed he was as busy as always, huffing and puffing when things went wrong. He had just stopped writing to Elsie.  
Was this his New Year's resolution?  
Had he decided to forget her once and for all, because being without her was better than waiting for her?

~~~~~~~

The day Peter Burns returned to his father's farm was a very cold day. It had snowed all night long and Peter could feel the coldness of the icy ground through the thin soles of his shoes. His hands were hidden in his pockets, but there was not much of him left that didn't feel numb or hurt. The wind was just too cold and his clothes weren't exactly made to protect a drifter from an icy day in the middle of February.

As everyone who had left his home a long time ago, he was relieved and disappointed to realize that nothing about the place had changed. He stopped in the yard, removed his tattered bag from his aching and stiff back and absorbed the sight of the farmhouse. To his surprising he found the view comforting.  
He had spent a very few days around here in the last couple of years. The last time had been during the war, but he had left again after just three days. Back then he couldn't stand being so close to his father. Peter and Joe Burns were like oil and water, related somehow, but unable to mix. Over the years they had only managed to co-exist. That's why Peter had joined the army. He never wanted to be a farmer and so going to the army was the cheapest and easiest option to make a life away from his father. It had also proven to be the most lethal alternative.  
It was true that Peter Burns was officially dead. He was a fallen soldier, lost and presumed dead in France. He had died in the line of duty and it had been easy to accomplish. He had simply grabbed his chance when he had seen it and had disappeared. The Germans had been of tremendous help, because thanks to them he and a fellow soldier had been missing, after they had forced them to hide in the woods.  
After a few days he had simply decided not to return to his battalion. He and his friend remained hidden and after some time they had broken into an empty house, where they had found enough food and clothing for the time being.   
Months later his friend had died from pneumonia and when the war was over Peter returned to England under his friend's name. He had gotten several poorly paid jobs in London and lost them again. He had found a girl he could love and had wanted to marry until he found out she was cheating on him. He had moved from London to Liverpool, but he remained luckless. No job, no home, no family. A truly fallen figure.  
He had lost what had been left of his pride in France and so he decided to go back to the place where it had all started.  
And now he was home again. Back close his father's lap. It was another defeat of many, but perhaps he could rebuilt his life here on the farm. 

~~~~  
Elsie found the pitiful being in front of the back door that led into the kitchen. He sat on the frozen ground, half frozen. At first she couldn't believe her eyes, but despite his dirty, famished appearance it was without a doubt Peter Burns who had returned from the dead.  
So she had taken him in, had given him food, a warm bath and had sent him to bed - no questions asked, because she sensed she wouldn't get any sufficient answer, before he was well again.  
The first time they really talked was on Sunday after mass. For the first time since his arrival Peter had been well enough to be up for a few hours and so he accompanied her to church.  
"It was a stroke, you said?" he asked, when they walked back. It had started snowing again and both were wrapped in several layers of clothing.  
"Yes, at night. I found him in the morning."  
"Must have been tough for you," Peter said.  
"It was."  
Part of her wanted to share her pain over the whole disaster with someone, but then she decided against it. She didn't know, if Peter would understand. He had been gone for too long. She hardly knew him. The only thing she knew was that she had to take care of him. He looked like the kind of person who needed someone to look after him.  
"I wish I had come home earlier," Peter said, somewhat defeated. "I wanted to see him again, you know. I wanted to make things right between us. Now it's too late. Like everything in my life."  
Elsie nodded, but she wouldn't say she could have told him so, if asked. If someone understood regret, it was her. Regret was probably the worst lesson a person could experience. "We can never know when our time in this world is over," she said lowly and made a decision, she would live to regret. 

~~~~~~~ 

London, 1922  
Sometimes his touch was too much to bear. Sometimes he was just too tender with her. Sometimes she wanted to scratch him until he hurt so badly that he wanted to hurt her back, because she felt she didn't deserve his tenderness.  
But, of course, he wanted to be kind and gentle. He wanted to worship her. He wanted to marry and live a prosper life. And she didn't fulfil any of his wishes.  
He didn't want to sneak around, but he did it for her, because he loved her and she abused this weakness of his. She seduced him again and again, bought expensive garments that he couldn't resist and perhaps reminded him of the women he served upstairs. She did all this, because she needed to stake her claim on him. She marked him with her fingernails and her teeth, so that he remembered her, every time he looked at the fading scars on his body. And she urged him to mark her as well and she groaned with delight when he finally lost control and he finally took her the way he had wanted to take her that night in the hallway, before she had left Downton to marry Joe.   
She suffered the whole year for this one night, in which she gave herself to him, without giving him what he really deserved.  
And then there was this one moment when she lay in his arms, her head on his chest when she felt his regular heartbeat. She felt safe and loved then and she wished she could bring herself to tell him so.  
This one night every year felt like redemption and punishment at the same time. It was sin and salvation in one. It was a reward for the wait and the sentence for a crime knowingly committed. It would never be right, but it also felt too gratifying to be wrong.

~~~~~~

Downton, Easter 1924  
Spring arrived at Downton and with it arrived Elsie Burns. It was the Sunday before Easter when she climbed off the train and returned to the village she hadn't been to in over a decade. Time had moved on and so had the village, but to Elsie it seemed as if not a day had passed since she left.  
She left the station and looked around. The street was busy with people who had attended church and now went home to have luncheon with their families. It took her only a few seconds to eye the Granthams and their servants. Of course, it was Mr Carson whom she saw first. He was the tallest and she could swear she even heard his baritone. A smile broadened on her face when she saw how well he looked. She took her time to watch him, to absorb the sight of him, undisturbed, sure nobody was expecting her. She sought shelter underneath a weeping willow and sank on the bench. She felt so peaceful and at home that way. Confident, she had made the right decision she continued to observe the people who had been part of her life once, realizing how much she was missing them. With her face hidden underneath a new hat she watched the small congregation, as the family went back to their cars or as the servants headed back to the Abbey on foot.  
Some things just never changed, she thought. She would have loved to keep watching him for as long as possible, but seconds later, she was glad she was sitting safely on that bench, because otherwise she might have keeled over. Her heart raced within her chest while her brain processed what happened at the church.  
Mr Carson was offering his arm to a woman. And it was not someone who belonged to the family. It wasn't the Dowager or Lady Mary or another aristocratic creature that needed steadying from a loyal servant. It was someone who belonged downstairs, a woman of his age, tall, slim, blond. She smiled at him and he smiled back. It was a smile that cut right through her heart, because he smiled so rarely. It was a smile he used to give to her.  
Elsie watched while Mr Carson and the woman on his arm strolled back to the Abbey at a leisurely pace.  
Paralysed as she was, she remained on the bench beneath the weeping willow, waited until the spring sun faded and the rain started. She grew cold while her dress got soaked with rain.

~~~~~~~~~

The next morning after the family had finished breakfast, Carson went to the village. It was a bit cold after the rain of the night before. He had to hurry to reach the station before the train left again and she was gone. Did she really think she could get away with another of her spy actions? Ever since she had confessed to him that she had been looking for him in London, he had been looking out for her everywhere he went and every second he was out of the house. And yesterday his wait had finally come to an end.  
She was back. After months without a word, without a letter from her, she was back.  
Elsie Burns had returned to Downton, but apparently she didn't have the courage to approach him. She hadn't turned up at the Abbey, nor had she send him a note.  
God, he would never understand this woman. She was the endless enigma in his life, he would never be able to read her, but he could try to reach her, before she ran away again.

~~tbc~~


	7. Choices

Chapter 7

Choices

 

Argyll, May 1874

It was a sunny and mild spring morning when a fourteen year old Elsie and her mother left the haberdashery. They had bought some fabric, because Elsie and her sister needed some new dresses and Elsie was carrying the neatly tied package in her arms. Her father had parked the small carriage near the pub down the street where he was drinking a beer – or two. Her mother, always a woman who hated to waste time, paced down the street and Elsie did her best to keep up with her. But then her mother suddenly stopped and quickly grabbed Elsie's upper arm to keep her from running into a gas lamp.

“But what...?” Elsie started, but before she could voice her confusion, her mother pulled her with her across the street.

“Sorry, Lass,” her mother said, “But there's someone we have to avoid.”

Her mother's explanation didn't do much to resolve Elsie's confusion and so she turned her head over her shoulder. The formerly crowded pavement on the other side of the road had emptied quickly. Now there was just one woman walking by, a black haired boy at her side. 

“Are you talking about her?” Elsie asked, as she curiously watched the lonely pair on the other side of the road. 

“Yes,” her mother answered.

“But what's wrong with her?”

In Elsies' eyes the woman looked perfectly normal. She was pretty and well dressed – actually, she was dressed better than most people Elsie knew, which made her think that woman had to be well off, if not rich.

“You wouldn't understand it,” her mother said, after she had cleared her throat.

Elsie felt a little insulted. “Why not?”

“Let's say, she's not playing by the rules. She's not married and she never was.”

“But she has a child,” Elsie said, her forehead wrinkled. Weren't all mothers married or at least widowed? She thought about it and realized she didn't know any woman with a child who wasn't or hadn't been married.

“Exactly. And the boy's father is married to another woman and it seems she isn't even ashamed of any of it,” her mother said, the disgust evident in her voice. “She's dressed up herself and the boy and shows him off like a price.”

 

“So people aren't talking to her, because she's with a married man?” Elsie asked, though the realization was already settling in. She knew the woman was committing a great sin, but somehow Elsie couldn't believe that this woman who looked so kind and pretty was as awful as her mother described her and meant to be an outcast. And what about the boy? It couldn't be his fault. After all he didn't ask for being born into this world.

“You could say so,” her mother answered. “She's made a choice and she's sticking to it, just as were changing the side of the road when we come across her.”

Elsie swallowed, feeling sorry for the young woman and her child. “That's cruel,” she said lowly.

“It's life,” her mother returned. “It's what she's chosen not only for herself, but also for her child, and now they both have to live with it. You can't make a choice and step back from it, when you feel like it. Remember that, Elsie! Once when you're old enough, you'll understand what I mean.”

Mrs Hughes sighed, “And now come on. Your father is waiting for us. You know he always gets grumpy when he doesn't get his dinner on time!”

Elsie followed her mother obediently, still thinking about her words.

It's what she's chosen.

What would she choose one day? What decisions lay ahead of her? And would she have the strength to stick to her choices?

 

~~~~~

Downton, the day after Easter 1924

The closer Carson got to the station, the faster he became. He was panicking, because he feared she could be gone by now. It had been a hectic morning at the Abbey and he had left the house later than planned. And now he was running late. It could easily happen that he missed the train and then she would be gone.

He rushed into the station and manoeuvred quickly through the small crowd in the hall and rushed upstairs where he could already hear the train approaching. Bloody hell... he wasn't the man to curse. Not even silently, but this moment he just felt like cursing out loud. Elsie Burns had this effect on him.

His eyes were fixed on the top of the stairs. She was there. Upstairs. He simply had to reach her. And he was aiming at his goal, oblivious to his environment. And so he barely noticed the people who passed him. People who had left the train he tried to reach. Suddenly someone hit his shoulder and he realized he had ran into a old man who could barely carry his suitcase.

“I'm sorry, Sir,” Carson mumbled, as he tried to make sure, the old man wouldn't fall down the staircase and then he rushed up. He reached the platform that was cloaked in steam and the noise of a departing machine. The train left as the last, remaining passengers did and Carson wished all of them to hell. He was too late. He just missed his chance to see the woman he loved. His heart raced in his chest. He was short of breath, but it wasn't his body that protested for the hastened walk. It was his mind and his heart. He had failed her – and himself – again.

 

~~~~

Downton, February 1924

 

After her very first day at the Abbey Polly Davis had known that she loved Charles Carson. It was a simple truth, a certainty she couldn't deny and never would, if asked. 

Of course, she had loved before, but not like this. Never like this. And so she set up the goal to gain his love in return. But she came to realize fairly quickly that it wasn't easy to get more from the butler than sympathy and a glass of leftover sherry every now and then. At first she thought he was just very buttoned up, like most English men, but as the weeks went by she came to the conclusion that he wasn't just closed up. He wasn't just a stranger to romantic feelings or didn't care for beautiful women or women at all.

He cared and he cared for one woman in particular. Someone who lived far away, as she noticed when she saw the address on the letters he wrote on a regular basis.  
It was so obvious, although no one else seemed to notice. Or maybe the others did notice and just pretended not to know.  
It hadn't taken long before she became jealous of the letters, because it seemed they contained much more than casual correspondence to a former colleague. These letters were an obstacle and they needed to stop and so she made sure they would never reach their destination. Just as she intercepted the letters the other woman wrote to him. It was so easy. She quickly recognized the pattern in which their letters arrived or left. He wrote them on Saturday evening and usually the response arrived the Monday the week after.

And some day it just stopped.

He stopped writing.

And so did she.

Out of sight, out of mind.

That was what Polly believed. She knew it was cruel, but what kind of future did they have anyway? She, Polly Davis, was here at his side and much more real than the other woman who lived far away. What was her name again?

Polly was patient. She knew it would take time, but time was on her side.

He had been living a dream for too long and when he woke up, he would see that she, Polly, was there, while the other woman was still out of his reach.

~~~~

 

Downton, the day after Easter 1924

He saw her when the steam of the leaving train faded. She was still there on the platform, closer than he had thought. She had chosen to stay after all. He was relieved, grateful - and scared to death.

“I think we should talk,” she simply stated, as she stood there, tying the string of her bag around her hands.

 

~~~~~

She hadn't left again. Elsie was still there on the platform, surrounded by steam and noise. She missed the train on purpose, because she had the feeling it would be a mistake to leave without seeing him one last time. So she let the train leave and as the steam faded, she recognized his well-known, beloved figure.

She didn't know why or how, but he was there. Whoever that other woman was, she didn't matter. She wasn't important. He came for her.

~~~~~

 

"The farm," she said. "I want to give it to Peter. He's ready, I think."

Carson nodded. Peter Burns wasn't the first war dead who had strangely returned from the grave. The way she described it he had become a scarred man, inside and out. But he had grown up. He had made his choice and had returned home, where he belonged. Did she try to do the same?

"And that's the reason you returned?"

"What chance did I have? You have never answered my letters!" The accusation in her voice was audible and he eyed her suspiciously. "I've written dozens of letters to you in the last few months. You're the one who never cared to write back."

They fell silent for a moment, contemplating the just heard. They'd done a lot to each other over the years. They had shouted, scratched and scarred each other, but they had never lied. So, whatever happened to their correspondence was a matter that didn't count now.

"Anyway," she said. "I'm here now and I won't ask you again to move to the farm. I guess I never wanted that in the first place. I just wanted you to understand what you were asking of me when you asked me to come back to Downton. I've changed too much to live here again."  
He wasn't sure he understood her. He would never really understand how one could be happy not to live in Downton, but he was ready to give it up for her. He knew that now.

"The cottage," he said. "It doesn't have to be in Downton."

Her forehead wrinkled as she listened to him, making the doubts in her mind visible.

"Are you sure that's what you want? What you can live with?" she asked, because if she was honest with herself, she couldn't picture him anywhere else. He was a part of Downton, like the old bricks were part of it. What if she had no right to take him away from here?

"I don't know if I can go through with it, but I would try, if you asked me to." It was the least she could do. He wanted her to say out loud that she wanted him.

Elsie shook her head, slowly, ever so slowly, while the first tears in years ran down her face. "And one day you'll wake up and hate me for it. You'll stop loving me."

"I won't," he said, but she wouldn't allow him to finish the sentence. 

"And I don't want to see that happen."

He had never seen her being so afraid of her own courage. He always thought that she was the strong one. The determined one while he was too afraid.

“I won't stop loving you,” he said, as he closed the distance them. He gently lifted her chin so that she had to look at him and said, “I could never stop loving you.”

 

~~~~~ 

After midnight, Polly Davis sat alone in her small sitting room and stared into the flames. After Mr Carson had returned from the village (after he had missed the servants' lunch) he had looked more cheerful than she had ever seen him before.

About two hours later she learned why he was so uncharacteristically happy and it broke her heart. Apparently Mr Carson had handed his Lordship his resignation and had suggested Mr Barrow take over until the family had found a suitable replacement. He was leaving. Retiring.

Polly stared into the fireplace where the letters she had collected over the weeks slowly crumbled until everything that remained was ash and dust.

 

~~~ATE~~~

~~~Almost the End~~~


	8. Vows

Chapter 8

Vows

Spring, 1925

He watched her intensely as she rolled up the silk stocking until it covered most of her leg, while a little part of the soft skin of her upper thigh remained uncovered. His fascination with this sensual sight of her was unmatched by anything he knew, even after all those years of knowing and loving her. 

He let his fingertips reach out and touched the luxurious material. She was too practical and unpretentious to buy them for her own pleasure. She cared much more for him and his needs than for herself. The thought that she was wearing them for him caused his throat to tighten and aroused him – again.

He had told her more than once that it didn't take silk stockings to make him want her, but, as usual, she never seemed to listen. And right now he wasn't in the mood or the position to argue. 

In all the years they had worked together, he had always dreamt of being close to her like this, or even stealing a glance at her naked legs. And now she was not only closer to him than he had ever imagined, no, he had also seen, felt, tasted, loved much more of her than just her naked legs. Not even one hour ago, those beautiful legs had been wrapped around his hips where they had pushed and demanded from him to give her more, to give her something no other man ever could. She was his now, legally and spiritually and he would never grow tired of her or the way she urged him to love her. 

Today was their one year anniversary. Twelve months ago they had exchanged their vows and had left Downton. It had been a holy ritual, an old fashioned wedding that finally ended what should never have been initiated in the first place.

It was a holy bond they had created after all these years. And he had felt relieved when he woke up next to her in the morning, his arm possessively over her body. No one but God could take her away from him now. 

But while he watched her so close next to him, her left foot on the bed next to his thigh, the other leg standing steadily on the ground, he couldn't care less about God or kingdom come, because every time he made love to her, he was already close to heaven. Thanks to her, he knew it all now. Peace and salvation. 

Elsie Carson was finally home at his side, where she belonged. They had made that vow and they lived it. They were married. Finally it was as it should be, as it should have been from the very beginning, if they hadn't been too frightened of the consequences. 

It was their time, given to them. 

~~The End~~


End file.
